


The Farthest Thing From Ruin

by JustJasper



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Clothed Sex, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Fluff, M/M, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:44:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4841120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/pseuds/JustJasper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why does it matter to you what robes I'm wearing?” Dorian sniffs, but presses himself ever so slightly back into the Bull's shape. They've built this on give and take, and these days, all Dorian wants to do is give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Farthest Thing From Ruin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neomeruru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neomeruru/gifts).



> Because she was lamenting that the "hike up your skirt" banter had never been used for as a start point for smut.

**“There is a loveliness to life that does not fade. Even in the terrors of the night, there is a tendency toward grace that does not fail us.” - Robert Goolrick**

The Iron Bull doesn't disguise his approach, even though Dorian knows he very well could, with the night and the rustling of a light wind for cover. Instead, he lets his feet fall heavy on the grass, as he crosses to where Dorian is standing watch on an outcropping of rock looking out over the river. Dorian doesn't turn towards him, but when the Bull enters his personal space, radiating heat, he has to stop himself turning towards him.

“You're wearing those skirts again.”

The Bull's voice is low, a deep vibration against Dorian's back. So hard to ignore at the best of times, but after a day of the most blatant flirting – propositioning at every turn, in fact – Dorian is feeling his resolve to ignore him waning.

“It's not a skirt,” he says, rolling his eyes, and hopes his voice conveys the gesture.

“Thought you'd given them up,” the Bull goes on, fingers at his hips, glancing over buckles on either side. “Glad you didn't.”

“Why does it matter to you what robes I'm wearing?” Dorian sniffs, but presses himself ever so slightly back into the Bull's shape. They've built this on give and take, and these days, all Dorian wants to do is _give_.

He feels the Bull shrug. “They look good on you.”

The robes are longer than usual, something heavier after their time in the Emprise, and now employed against the cold nights in the Hinterlands.

“Everything looks good on me.”

“True,” the Bull says, and even as Dorian can feel thick fingers pressing against his hips through the material and leather of his robes, he knows the Bull is surveying the area too. They're within shouting distance of camp, but they can't be seen in the dark.

Taking a turn at watch is a skill Dorian had to learn when he joined the Inquisition, so unused to having to make sense of foreign terrain in the dark. Now, he can tell that there's a fennec at the riverbank, and that the glimmer of silver he can see to the west is, by the way it moves, the light of the moons catching on moving water, and not weapons of an approaching adversary.

Still, he's glad that the Bull can offer another eye to the scene, since he seems set on distracting Dorian.

“I wondered,” the Bull says, and Dorian prepares himself for any manner of thing the Bull could have _wondered_ , “if you've ever wanted me to lift your skirts and fuck you.”

Dorian catches his lip between his teeth, but it's not enough to stifle the little gasp he makes.

“I've thought about it,” the Bull goes on.

“I'll bet.”

“Can't help myself, all the old ruins around. All these crumbling walls, the perfect height to bend you over.”

“Oh?” Dorian says, flexing his hands against his staff, as if he's just adjusting his grip. A tell, he imagines, but finds he doesn't care. He could have, once. “You imagining putting me across a ruined wall and _ruining_ me?”

“If you want it,” the Bull says, right at the top of Dorian's spine. He shudders.

There's one such wall not ten feet away, and it is indeed the perfect height. The Hinterlands are quiet, no incursions worse than bandits, who are unlikely to attack an Inquisition camp.

“You're a terrible influence on me,” he says, as he presses himself back deliberately into the Bull's shape.

The Bull laughs softly. “You're giving me too much credit.” His fingers press into Dorian's hips, and it speaks to familiarity, to how well Dorian has come to know another person, that it is a question.

“Ruin me, then.”

He laughs again at that, as he steers Dorian by the hip towards the wall, just visible in the low light of a distant campfire, because they both know that everything about them is the farthest thing from ruination they can be.

“Watchword?” the Bull prompts, as a hand presses in a smooth line up Dorian's back. He knows asking means the Bull may be a little rough with him, and the idea is an absolute delight.

“It's 'katoh'.”

“Your pronunciation's got so good,” the Bull says, and Dorian can practically hear the proud smile in his voice.

Satisfied, the Bull presses Dorian down roughly over the stone wall, giving him only enough time to lean his staff beside them before he puts a hand between his shoulder blades, and uses his knees to kick Dorian's legs apart. It all goes straight to Dorian's cock, which responds eagerly to the Bull pressing him against the cold stone, mercifully weathered smooth by ages.

The Bull hikes up Dorian's robes – Maker, fine, his _skirts_ – and piles them around him, presses the beginnings of his clothed erection against the curve of Dorian's linen-covered backside. He feels huge, even now, and Dorian laughs breathlessly. The fabric pooled around his hips is something new and entirely thrilling, and he squirms onto his toes as the Bull presses forward.

“You okay with quick?” the Bull murmurs, so his voice doesn't carry. “I could take my time, but your watch shift ends soon.”

“Timed it, did you?” Dorian murmurs, and takes a moment to sweep the area with his eyes, as the Bull rubs himself slowly against Dorian's backside, harder with each pass. “You ought to stop talking if you want to fuck me over this wall before someone comes to relieve me of duty.”

“I'm the one doing the relieving right now.”

“Says the man chattering away, all talk no action.”

The Bull growls, and yanks down Dorian's breeches and smalls, only to around his thigh, forcing his legs together and his arse up. His other hand is busy holding the bunched fabric of his skirts out of the way.

Dorian finally looks around, and how strange he realises it is, to feel so comfortable in the Bull's presence that he didn't need to see him, only know he was there to agree to this. In the night the Bull's face is all dramatic shadow, but Dorian can still see the moonlight glinting off his eyepatch and the small bottle he's raised to his mouth to pop the cork with his teeth.

“Always prepared,” Dorian says, grinning at him as his heart does a ridiculous thing. “I've a spell for that.”

“Save your mana, big guy,” the Bull says, pouring oil onto his fingers, “I've got you.”

“Yes, I'm quite gotten, aren't I?”

Dorian groans as one thick finger presses smoothly inside him. It's amazing that he can feel so satisfied by just that, and still want more. The Bull turns his finger in slow circles, stretching him out slowly. He's holding the bottle and Dorian's skirts in his other hands, and Dorian can feel the beginnings of a familiar, pleasing strain in the backs of his thighs.

“I always liked these skirts of yours,” the Bull hums, as he curls his finger and taps on the bundle of nerves inside Dorian that has him jerking and having to clap a hand to his mouth to stop his moan carrying into the night.

_Better hike up your skirt, mage boy._

He thinks of it as a start, of some kind. The Bull slips a slick second finger in beside the first, wiggling it into place, stretching him even further. It's much faster progression than usual, and the friction burns deliciously, but with the watchword in the back of his mind, Dorian feels entirely happy with a hurried fuck.

“Even when I was only a strange 'Vint?”

“You're still a strange 'Vint, Dorian,” he chuckles, scissoring his fingers within him. Dorian's cock throbs each time the Bull seeks his prostate, with deliberate firm touches. “Whatever you were, you were still hot.”

“You were never without intent, were you?”

“Hm?”

“If I'd decided I wanted you then, within a week of meeting you, you'd have fucked me, wouldn't you?”

“Probably,” the Bull says, as he presses three fingers into Dorian. He grips the wall and turns his head to groan into his shoulder. It's almost too fast, but then as his body adjusted the fingers begin to slide smoothly in and out of him, twisting around to stretch him out.

“Would have been rather a shame, if you'd been all talk.”

“Pretty sure you liked the talk,” the Bull says.

“A man can't live on talk alone.”

“I'll give you what you need, kadan.”

The assurance is unnecessary, because Dorian has believed it for longer than he'd been aware of doing so. The Bull pulls his fingers out, and Dorian can feel him opening the front of his ridiculous trousers one-handed. His hands shift, pouring more oil out, and Dorian wiggles his hips impatiently.

“Eager!” The Bull coos. “If I'd known pushing your skirts up and fucking you would get you hot, I'd have done it a long time ago.”

the Bull presses the fat head of his cock against Dorian's hole, and slowly he presses forward, stretching him out around the smooth crown.

“A-ah-ah!” Dorian can't help the noise, and the Bull reaches forward and offers two thick fingers up to him.

“You know I don't care who sees, but the Boss won't be happy if we get caught fucking on your watch.”

Dorian makes a breathless agreement, and takes the fingers into his mouth. They've the remains of oil on them, and they slide smoothly against his tongue, the Bull's half-fingers and his thumb framing his jaw. Kaffas, _yes_.

“That's it. You make all the noise you want, nobody but me will hear you.”

Dorian has sucked cocks smaller than the Bull's two fingers, and that makes him shiver. The Bull presses his own cock forward, into his tight, willing body, as he holds Dorian's skirts against the small of his back.

He pauses, as if he's deciding on a pace, then he pulls back after a little way, and begins to fuck Dorian in increments, pressing more and more into him with each collection of forward thrusts, and it is the perfect choice. The pressure and the relief, his knees pressing against the stone, being lifted into his toes as the Bull gets himself deeper and deeper, is entirely wonderful.

When his hips are bumping Dorian's backside, against his balls trapped there but his closed thighs, he slides out completely, and then thrusts back in in one smooth motion. Dorian groans around the Bull's fingers, rolls his tongue around them and braces against the wall as best he can.

“Your body, Dorian,” the Bull growls, and he feels it through the man's belly as he presses over his back. “You feel so good. So hot, the way you squeeze my cock inside you, like you don't want to let go.”

Dorian groans and tries to push back. He's not the leverage for it, and as the Bull begins to move in earnest, his toes leave the ground as he's fucked over the wall with each thrust forward. He's being fucked a few dozen feet from the Inquisition camp, in the open country, by an enormous Tal-Vashoth mercenary, and _Andraste's ass_ , he can't imagine anything better.

He scans the area, hopes he doesn't see anything to cause concern, that would rather ruin the mood; satisfied, gives himself over entirely to the feeling of the Bull's cock dragging in and out of him.

“Been thinking about fucking you in these skirts since the Emprise,” the Bull tells him, as he moves his fingers against Dorian's swirling tongue. “Fresh from a fight, snow in your hair, bending you over and pulling you onto my cock, making you feel _so_ good.” He laughs. “You wouldn't forgive me for fucking you in the snow, even if you wanted though.”

Dorian isn't sure whether he wants to laugh or scoff, but it's hard to do either with the Bull's fingers in his mouth. He moans instead, sucks his fingers as the Bull hammers against him, short deep strokes and then long, smooth ones.

“I know what you like,” the Bull growls, “I want to give you what you like.”

Dorian can feel himself building towards climax, sensation coiling low in his belly. He swears around the Bull's fingers, realising he might come just being fucked, and that is almost as overwhelming as it was the first time, when he'd had absolutely no idea anyone could make his body do _that_.

“How you doing?” the Bull says, leaning over him, nuzzling at his nape. “You gonna come?”

He nods, and the Bull keeps fucking him, hard enough for his knees to knock into the wall, the clink of the metal there against stone and their harsh breaths hopefully not carrying through the night. Almost, Dorian knows, just needs something, something more than the relentless, torturous thrust of the Bull's cock inside him, lighting up every nerve in him from where they're connected, something more than his cock rubbing against the material at the front of his robes.

The Bull's hand slips out of his mouth and Dorian gasps as the Bull grabs him by the hips, taking great handfuls of skirt with him, lifting him clear off the ground and fucks him fiercely.

“Kaffas,” he says, thankfully more gasp than shout, but it's a close thing as he's stretched so far and filled so fully. “Bull, Bull, I'm- _kaffas_!” He claps his own hand over his mouth as he comes all over the inside of his robe, drips messily onto his thigh.

The Bull growls, low and long as he fucks Dorian through his orgasm. He comes just as the crest of Dorian's ends, and is still shaking from his own orgasm; the Bull's hips pressed firm against his backside, emptying deep inside him, like Dorian likes best. Then – _Maker take him right now_ – he moves again, thrusts shallowly in his body, only just the good side of over-stimulation, long minutes of slow movement, until they're both well and truly complete.

“Kadan,” he sighs, as he leans down to kiss Dorian's back. “You're so good.”

“You're not bad, yourself,” Dorian mutters, and the Bull pulls out of him carefully. The Bull is so big, and as he pushes himself off the wall to stand and pull his breeches up, Dorian feels empty without the Bull inside of him. He is glad to know, even separate, that some part of the Bull remains in him.

Dorian takes up his staff again, and scans the hillside. The water still shimmers on the river to the west, and the fennec has disappeared, and to the east an owl is hunting.

They probably look inconspicuous, when a scout comes to relieve him of the watch a few minutes later, standing by the stone wall together and looking into the night. At least inconspicuous if they weren't _them_ , he imagines. So relieved, they head back towards camp together.

“I can feel your come on my thighs,” Dorian mutters, the last shameful thing he dares before they're too close to camp.

The Bull laughs, and puts his hand on the small of Dorian's back. There is no shame for that, not any longer, and he settles into it.

“Let's get back to the tent, I'll clean you up.”

“Pointless,” Dorian quips, “we'll only get filthy again.”

He smiles and the Bull laughs, as their tent comes into view.

**“That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth, and you can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out.” - Andrea Gibson**


End file.
